So Now What?
by Pegasus
Summary: Missing scene: George and Mitchell in the bar behind the cafe as shown at the beginning of episode 6.


_**Disclaimer: I neither own, nor claim to own, copyright on these characters or the wonderful BBC3 TV Series 'Being Human'. This story is written entirely for my own, and hopefully other people's entertainment. No copyright infringement intended.**_

**So What Now?**

"So what now?"

The words echoed away into the night and Mitchell stood staring at the lycanthrope opposite him. He cut a pitiful figure, bloody and battered from his encounter with Seth and his goons. The scent of fresh blood, normally so tantalising held a flavour of revulsion for Mitchell, tainted as it was. But he wasn't much more than a kid, and the desperation in his tone twanged Mitchell's guilt strings as expertly as a concert violinist.

He considered the young man with his dark eyes, nothing visible in his expression and took a few steps towards him.

"What's your name?"

The lyco took an involuntary step back as Mitchell approached and carefully, not wanting to startle him any more – if that was possible – the vampire stood still again. "C'mon," he repeated. "What's your name?"

"Why?"

The faintest smile quirked Mitchell's lips upwards. "You really are a suspicious little bastard, aren't you? I just want to know what to call you other than Fido, that's why."

Bristling slightly, despite his obvious discomfort, the other man replied reluctantly. "George," he said.

He looked like a George.

Odd, that.

"Listen to me, George. It's a bloody hard world out there. It's bad enough for humans – but for people like you and me? It's worse. The best thing you can do is to keep running. To keep moving. As long as you stand still, they'll always come for you."

"What did I ever do to them?" It was so plaintive, so pathetically appealing that Mitchell couldn't help but smile.

"You're a lyco. A werewolf. That's good enough in their book. Now me, I prefer to get to know people. Don't misunderstand me, I don't like you very much as a lyco, but as George? Well. I don't know you."

George visibly sagged under the sheer force of what Mitchell was telling him and, despite his best intentions, Mitchell couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for him. He looked so very lost.

_I remember, nearly eighty years ago, another young man waking up to a world he didn't understand._

"Look at the state of you," the vampire said, waving a hand dismissively in George's direction. "You should go get yourself cleaned up. Covered in all that blood, you'll attract every vampire from miles around."

"Are you really a…vampire?" George couldn't help but ask the question. He didn't deny that the men who had attacked him, or this swarthy Irish stranger were what they said they were, it was just…hard to accept.

"Are you really a werewolf?" Mitchell countered the question with lightning fast timing and George blinked.

"Of course I am."

"So, then."

To prove the point, Mitchell closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, they were perfectly, unreadably black.

"Oh, my _God_!" George took another few steps backward and collided with the wall. "Oh, my GOD!"

Mitchell blinked his eyes back to normal and adopted a soothing tone. "George, George, it's OK. Really. It's OK. I'm not going to hurt you." George took a few deep breaths and calmed himself a little. After a while, Mitchell nodded in approval and slid a packet of cigarettes out of his coat pocket. He lit one and offered the packet to George, who shook his head numbly.

"I don't smoke. I didn't think vampires would smoke, either. I don't remember the scene in 'Dracula'. Mind you, I didn't believe werewolves were real until six months ago, so nothing really surprises me….oh, bloody hell." He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the ground, his head buried in his hands. "Oh, bloody hell. It was bad enough to start with. Now _this_?"

Growing a little exasperated, Mitchell took a long pull from his cigarette and adopted a more assertive approach. "Look, George, you need to get a grip of yourself. You need to show a little bit of gratitude. You're still alive, aren't you?"

"Maybe I don't want to be. I sure as hell didn't ask to live like this."

"What about the werewolf who turned you? What do they say?"

"Not a great deal given that I've never seen them since."

Mitchell was genuinely shocked at this. Etiquette with werewolves – as far as he understood it at least - and vampires was similar on this matter. You make a conversion, you stay around until the victim wakes up. You make it clear to them what they are, what they've become and how to deal with it. To just walk away…

"He just left you?" He was making a presumption that it had been a 'he', there was no real way of knowing.

"Yep. Not so much as a goodbye."

"He left you…_alone_?"

"Completely. Apart from the dead American and a field full of butchered sheep. Not even so much as a postcard. There's a niche market for Hallmark, isn't there? "Sorry I didn't stay around long enough to witness you change and for your entire world to fall to pieces, but I was busy eating sheep. Do forgive me.".

"Man, that sucks."

"Oh, you think?" Good, the kid had _some _fire in him. Mitchell was almost relieved. As things stood, he would be ripped apart by the next group of vampires he encountered. Chances were high that Mitchell wouldn't be there to step in and save him again. He needed to ignite that fire if he were to stand _any_ chance of survival.

"I'm sorry, George," he said and he was surprised to discover that he was indeed sorry. He ran his fingers through his hair and considered the beaten werewolf a little longer. "If there was something I could do to help you…"

"I know, I know. You'd love to help me, but you can't. I'm bad for your street cred." Already George was growing bitter. Mitchell didn't blame him. He didn't know a great deal about lycanthropy, but from what he had observed over the years, it wasn't exactly the most pleasant of conditions. When the blood lust grew too much for Mitchell to bear, he spent his days and nights in a state of almost unbearable torture. But to go through the physical changes that George's body would have to endure…

He shuddered.

"It's not that George…"

No, the boy was right. That was _exactly_ what it was. What would Herrick say if he knew that he, Mitchell had stepped in to prevent Seth and his crowd from tearing George apart? What would he _think?_

And all of a sudden, Mitchell no longer cared what Herrick thought. He felt an irresistible urge to reach out and offer comfort and guidance to this boy. Perhaps it was because he couldn't shake the memories of his own terror in those heady, bewildering early days of his vampirism. Perhaps it was because there was something about George that spoke heavily of 'kicked puppy'. Whatever it was, it made him feel both charitable and uncomfortable at the same time.

"Look," he said. "I've got a one bedroom flat on the edge of the city. You can come back and clean up if you want. It's better than a grotty room over a shop and I'll give you some tips on how to survive."

George stared at him as though trying to fathom the hidden meaning and could find none. He sagged in defeat.

"You're not going to suck my blood out, are you?"

"Get away, you're tainted. Besides." Mitchell shrugged easily. "I'm trying to give up."

The look George gave him was one of complete incredulity and Mitchell treated him to a slightly twisted grin. "I promise I won't tear your jugular vein open," he said. "And my word is my bond. I'm not like the others."

"I've kind of figured that one out," said George, carefully maintaining a sense of wariness. If what Mitchell said was true and he _was_ a vampire (and George had little doubt that it was truth: he'd done that weird thing with his eyes, which was just plain _wrong_) – what kind of danger was he placing himself in?

A former (brief) girlfriend had once told George, in no uncertain terms, that his biggest problems was the fact that he was so staid, so steady, so afraid to take risks.

He wondered, wildly, what she'd have thought of him right now as he slowly nodded.

"I should go tell my boss…" He indicated the café behind him and Mitchell nodded.

"Tell him you were mugged in the alleyway and you're going down to A & E to get checked out. I'll even take you there if you want. My car's parked just up the way."

"I'm not that badly hurt," George said, realising that he was already feeling better than he had barely minutes ago. "So let me just grab a couple of things and…you're on."

"Cool." Mitchell finished his cigarette. "I'll wait here for you."

George began moving away, then paused and turned.

"No sucking my blood?"

"No sucking your blood. I promise, George. Now will you hurry up before I change my mind?"

As George disappeared down into the blackness of the alleyway behind the café, Mitchell shook his head both in amusement and in bitter self-deprecation.

So what now?

(c) S Cawkwell, 2009


End file.
